


A Life Not Lived

by danajeanne



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danajeanne/pseuds/danajeanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie drags the Burkes to an exhibit at the Met by a new French artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Not Lived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mums_the_Word](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/gifts), [love2imagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/love2imagine/gifts).



> Post S6. Beta'd by Sherylyn with many thanks!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A knock on the door interrupted lunch time at the Burke home. Peter opened it to find Mozzie standing there, staring. “What the hell—”

“Honey, watch your words. What’s the…” El tucked her head under Peter’s arm, gently bouncing their son in her arms, “…oh, hello, Mozzie. Are you okay?”

“You have to be at the Met. Tonight. At 7 pm.” Mozzie was wearing his constipated I’m-Not-Happy expression. He shoved a flyer in the couple’s direction. Peter stood there without moving.

“Hon.” El nodded at the paper.

“Oh, for…fine.” Peter quickly read it as Mozzie turned to leave. “Hey you, just wait a minute. Why do we have to go to this exhibit?”

“You just have to. You’ll regret it if you don’t.” Mozzie scurried away, muttering something about Suits who ask too many questions.

El moved away from the door so Peter could close it. “Well? What is it?”

“The flyer for the new exhibit by that French artist everyone is raving about,” Peter said sourly.

“Including me!” El reached around their child to grab the flyer. “I’m sure we can find a babysitter with no problem. Yvonne’s wanted to come for a ‘baby visit’ for days. We’re going.”

“We are? We are. Fine.” 

***** 

Peter finished paying for their tickets and gently led El in the direction of the Special Exhibits Gallery.

“It says here,” El began, opening the brochure, “that François Renaitre burst onto the Art scene only a few months ago, after being discovered by an anonymous American on a vacation to Paris. After recognizing his brilliant talent, photos of the art were taken, emails sent, phone calls made, and the Met found itself the proud host of M. Renaitre’s first, but certainly not last, exhibit.”

“He better be good, this is costing a mint,” was all Peter said.

“There’s Mozzie.” El pointed to the far corner Moz was attempting to hunch into. He nodded his head in acknowledgement as El gave a little wave.

“Suit. Mrs. Suit,” greeted Mozzie as they walked up to him.

“So, what exactly is going on?” Peter looked at Moz suspiciously.

Moz ignored the question. “Go right in. The paintings are in order and must be seen exactly the way they’re placed or they lose all meaning.”

El smiled at Moz and tucked her hand around her husband’s elbow. “Let’s go, hon.”

They were both quiet as they looked at the first painting. Around them, other guests were softly talking as they moved through the exhibit.

A large Metropolitan Police cap surged out of a stark white background. Peter turned to Mozzie and shrugged. “Look closely, Suit.”

El had already moved nearer and was peering at the bottom of the hat. “Look, Peter, down there at the left side of the rim of the hat,” she said softly.

Peter bent down, his eyes following her pointing finger. Nestled half under the hat was a tiny pair of blue baby booties. “Huh. Next.” He straightened up and moved away.

Again, the stark white background, but this time playing host to a gigantic black question mark surrounded by two women and a child in various sizes over and over and over again. Peter jerked back. “They have no faces. Who are they supposed to be?”

“I think that’s the point, hon,” El commented. Mozzie gave her a knowing look as they moved on.

“What’s with all the bright white backgrounds?” Peter asked. El shook her head and Mozzie just shrugged.

“Right,” muttered Peter as he stood back and looked at painting number three. “Again with the blank faces,” he said, but his tone was softer than before. His gaze travelled over the lone figure, presumably male, and the countless heads hanging off the neck.

“Almost like a male medusa,” said El.

“Mozzie—” Peter’s suspicious look was back. Mozzie simply gestured to the next painting, which was placed partially out of sight around a bend in the wall.

“Oh my God,” El’s shaken voice floated back to them. “He really loved her, didn’t he?”

Peter quickly walked around the corner and stopped behind his wife.

“As much as you love your husband and he loves you, combined,” replied Moz as he joined them. 

“She would have destroyed him, used him to go back to his life as a criminal. I don’t think she loved him at all,” Peter said flatly.

“And the FBI killed him.” The look in Mozzie’s eyes bordered on hatred.

“Does it really matter if she loved him or not, hon? He obviously loved her with all his heart and soul.” El waved at the painting. “I know that’s a cliché, but just look at that!”

Gone was the stark white background. This was a design of various hues of soft greens and blues melting together with two people painted a little off center. The first figure was obviously male, dressed in tattered blue jeans, a blue T-shirt, his feet bare. He was sitting with one knee pulled up against his chest and his right arm stretched forward, ropes of shiny pearls dangling from his fingers. His head was tilted slightly so all you could see were his dark curls, the curve of one cheek and the side of his chin. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was gazing adoringly at the woman in front of him.

Sitting on the floor, she was clothed in a velvet emerald dress, high-waisted with a full skirt spread out around her. Necklaces blazing in bright colors hung around her neck, bracelets on both arms, and rings on all her fingers. Her dark blue eyes sparkled with love and a bit of mischief, while her mouth was just on the verge of breaking into a huge grin. Her head was tilted slightly to the left, while the fingers of her right hand barely touched the edge of a sparkling diamond and gold tiara beginning to slide off her head.

“Where is he, Mozzie?”

“Neal’s dead, Peter, you saw him,” Mozzie said softly.

“So, what? He painted these while he worked with the FBI? Stored them in June’s closet? I find that hard to believe; when did he find the time?”

A gentle, but stern voice behind them asked, “Why is that so hard to believe, Agent Burke? Your only other option is to try and convince us Neal Caffrey is still alive.”

“Hello, June.” Peter didn’t say anything, watching as his wife and June greeted each other. The elderly lady hadn’t changed much in the eighteen months since Neal’s death, except for a bit more sadness around her eyes.

“You also underestimated him, Agent Burke. Neal was a lot smarter than you ever gave him credit for and was a brilliant, amazing artist—his original work included—to boot.” 

“I caught him twice—”

“Not really,” Mozzie interrupted. “We knew it was a trap. Neal wanted to see Kate so badly that he was willing to risk you actually catching him in order to do so.”

“I don’t believe you,” Peter said flatly.

“Really, Moz, you didn’t have to tell him. You were eating an apple, Peter, and tossed the core over your shoulder right into the trash can. Jones was there and he laughed, said you made it in one shot, this must be your lucky day.”

“Neal.” Peter slowly turned around.

“Hello, Peter.” Nobody moved as the two men simply looked at each other.

Finally Peter said, “I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.”

“Personally, I prefer the former.” 

The two men embraced, then it was El’s turn. “I should slap you for—for—for—for killing yourself.”

“I had a good reason, which Peter should have worked out by now.” Neal looked over at his former partner.

“The Panthers,” Peter said grudgingly. “They’d figured out by then that Neal was a plant, and if they thought he was still alive they would have gone all out, killing everyone Neal cared about. Right?”

“ALL of us,” June pointed out. “They wouldn’t have cared less that Elizabeth was pregnant.”

Everyone was silent as they considered the hideous position Neal had been in and what he’d been forced to do.

“I certainly didn’t like doing it,” Neal protested, as the silence lengthened.

“We grieved for you,” Peter began. “We—”

“Would you rather be grieving for your wife and unborn son?” Neal snapped, brutally.

“Hon.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You were caught in an untenable position and did the only thing possible,” Peter admitted.

Neal smiled. “Wow, Peter, I think that’s the only time you’ve ever apologized to me for anything. And I only had to die for it to happen.”

Peter opened his mouth, before closing it so hard his teeth clicked. “Are we going to see the rest of this life you never lived?”

“Just remember, Peter, I painted what I felt at the time I painted them. And, yes, most of them were stored in one of June’s ‘closets’.”

“I do have a lot of them, Peter,” June said with a smile.

The small group continued strolling through the exhibit taking in the pain, sorrow, and unhappiness that Neal Caffrey had torn from his soul to put on canvas. Suddenly Peter stopped. 

“That’s my shoe.”

“Yes, it is,” Neal replied.

“That’s my shoe, my shoe in giant form, and that’s your stupid hat.”

“That’s correct, Peter.”

“Neal, why does my giant foot look like it’s about to squash your tiny hat?” Peter’s voice was calm and controlled. “Did you actually feel like that?”

“Yes. Not the entire time, but yes, at times it felt like you, the FBI, whomever were doing their best to—er—squash my soul.” Neal grimaced. “Sorry, that sounded awfully pretentious, but I can’t think of any other way to explain it.”

“No wonder you painted it instead,” said El.

“Exactly.” Neal smiled at her. A real smile, not one of his phony grins.

“I haven’t seen this one,” Mozzie was several paintings down from them. His expression was flitting from hurt to confusion to anger and back again so quickly Peter wasn’t sure he’d seen anything.

“I didn’t want you to. I wasn’t going to hang this one, but… I did.”

“Obviously,” Mozzie said dryly. “If you felt like that, why didn’t you say something? I would have understood.”

“Would you? Really?”

“Okay, probably not, but I would have accepted it.” Mozzie sighed. “This painting hurts.”

“It’s supposed to,” Neal said simply.

Instead of the white background, this one was in shades of black, red, and purple. In the middle, a man with his head thrown back, neck tendons stretched taut, arms flung out as though ready for crucifixion. Again, there was no visible face. Two sets of hands, one on each side, were pulling on his arms. The feeling coming from the painting was of a man about to be torn in two.

“Oh, Neal,” El said sadly. “I’m so, so sorry.” She stood there, not sure what to do. Neal stepped forward and hugged her tightly.

“Apology accepted, forgiven and forgotten,” he whispered as her eyes filled with tears.

Peter stood in silence, fists on his hips, head hanging, gazing at the floor. He looked back up to find everyone staring at him, Neal with a non-committal expression. “I can’t go back and undo it, Neal. What happened, happened.”

“Hon—”

“No.” Peter glared at Mozzie and June defiantly. “I’m not apologizing because a thief had his feelings hurt when he got caught stealing!”

“Peter!” El exclaimed angrily.

Moz also chimed in. “It was partly your fault, too, Suit!”

“So!” Neal clapped his hands together. “Wanna see the rest?”

“Can we skip to the end?” Peter asked. “I’d rather come back and go through these without the artist along.”

Neal tilted his head and quirked his lips. “Sure, Peter. The end is nothing exciting, though.”

That was putting it mildly. Black shot through with small strokes of every possible color available flowed over the canvas. Directly in the middle, half buried in grass, cracked, and beginning to tilt to one side was a tombstone. In keeping with the theme of no faces, there was no name on this tombstone, simply two dates: 

1982-2014

“We told you, Peter, Neal Caffrey is dead,” said June.

“Yeah. You did, didn’t you? You got the dates wrong, though.”

Neal burst out laughing. “Peter, are you seriously telling me I got my own birth-date wrong?”

“You were born in 1978.”

“Neal Caffrey was born in 1978. Neal Bennet was born in 1982, as was Danny Brooks.”

"Then it should read 1978 since Neal Caffrey died, not Neal Bennett or Danny Brooks," Peter said stubbornly.

Before the discussion could escalate into more of an argument than it already was, a bright voice called out behind them, high keels clacking against the tiles as the voice came closer.

“M. Renaitre!”

“Curator of the exhibit,” Neal said quietly, and smiled brightly at the grey-haired woman as he switched into a French accent. “You must slow down, Evelyn, I am not going anywhere.”

“I should hope not, M. Renaitre. I’m actually hoping you’ll reconsider your desire to not sell any of your amazing paintings. I’ve had several offers for each one, some in the seven-figure range!”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Peter burst out.

“Peter, may I present to you Evelyn Tigress, and Evelyn, this is an old, dear friend of our family, Peter Burke. He has known me since I began my first coloring book, so it is difficult for him to believe somebody might actually want to pay money—a lot of money—for my adult scribbles.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Evelyn gave Peter a slant-eyed look. “So, M. Renaitre, would you reconsider?”

“No, I am afraid not, not at this time. Maybe later, much later, but they are still so close to my heart it is difficult to imagine them in a stranger’s home.”

“Very well,” Evelyn sighed, then smiled hopefully. “You do still plan to allow us to host your new series when it’s been completed?”

“But of course. I would not want my paintings to hang anywhere but in this magnificent museum.” Neal very carefully didn’t look at Peter.

“What’s the theme of your next exhibit going to be, François?” Peter asked.

“Reborn,” François said with Neal’s widest smile spreading across his face. 

Fin, or is it the beginning?


End file.
